


The Man With The Plan

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Escape Plans, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 14:56:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6810046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is single-minded when he makes that fateful deal with Peter to get out of prison. Of course, the best-laid plans often go awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man With The Plan

     Neal Caffrey was a man with a plan. Yep, plans were good things. Being stupidly impulsive had resulted in a leash and a keeper who could yank that tether whenever it pleased him. A really good plan would remedy this whole sad state of affairs.

     Neal’s goal—his ultimate plan—was to find the lost love of his life, hold her close, and then soar far, far away from the clutches of those who thought that they had him shackled. The strategy would take time to implement and set in motion, but Neal was determined to make it happen, sooner rather than later.

     The first step in his methodology was to gather information. He needed to find out the exact response time of the Marshals when his tracker went into Defcon mode. How long would it take the Federal storm troopers to mobilize and pursue? This would be really helpful intel when he was ready to literally “cut” and run.

     So, late one Friday evening, Neal “accidentally” stepped over the demarcation line and entered an upscale bar that was crowded with the TGIF corporate drones, and pulsating with the strident sound of hard rock. He ordered a single-malt Scotch on the rocks and quickly downed it in one gulp. Two more followed in close order before he took the fourth with him to a small vacant table off to the side.

     Neal was primarily a wine enthusiast, making a glass of red ambrosia last for an hour or more as he sipped and allowed the blend of tannins to roll over his tongue. He was a lightweight when it came to the harder stuff, usually avoiding it because con men had to be sharp and in control of their brains at all times. But tonight, he had a plan. He allowed himself to get really plastered in a very short amount of time. He would use that as an excuse for innocently straying out of his radius. The bone-jarring music would be justification for not hearing the warning beep of his anklet.

     Eventually, Neal checked the time on his phone through bleary eyes. Wow! Would you look at that—two missed calls from his handler. Sorry, Peter, I guess that I didn’t hear because of the _very_ loud music. Neal squinted his eyes and stared again at the time. It had been almost forty minutes since his foray into the forbidden. Well, hell, Neal could be in a car, on a train or on a plane heading anywhere by now. The good taxpayers certainly were not getting their money’s worth out of that bunch!

     Suddenly, the room seemed to shimmer before him, slowly coalescing into a kaleidoscope of sounds and colors. The man with the plan now felt really tired, and the well-thought-out scheme became hazy as well. Giving in to the inevitable, he allowed his head to descend upon his folded arms.

     Neal wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he felt a determined hand shake his shoulder. He tried to ignore it, but there it was again, even firmer and rougher than before. Neal sighed and pulled in a ragged breath as he raised his head. It seemed easier to focus if he closed one eye. Even restricted by monovision, there was no mistaking a stern-looking Peter Burke looming above him. His facial expression telegraphed either extreme irritation or perhaps constipation. Right now, Neal couldn’t tell.

     Whatever his state of mind, it didn’t stop Peter from clutching Neal’s arm and forcefully pulling him from his seat. He practically frog-marched Neal out to his Ford Taurus that was illegally parked at the curb. Before he proceeded to manhandle Neal into the passenger seat, he turned the con man around and leaned him precariously against the outside of the car.

     “Are you going to get sick on me while I drive you home?” It seemed that Peter was in interrogation mode. How appropriate—so very FBI-ish of him!

     “Why would ya think that, Peter?” Neal asked with all the guileless innocence that he could muster.

     Peter let out a long, exasperated breath. Neal thought it sorta sounded like he had sprung a leak somewhere.

     “Caffrey, I swear—you are dead meat if you barf in my car!”

     Neal just favored Peter with a doleful expression and hiccupped. They actually did make it all the way to Riverside Drive before Neal stumbled clumsily from his seat and retched painfully into the gutter. He hadn’t eaten anything, so all that came up was some pretty foul-smelling Scotch. Neal decided, right then and there, that he would never touch the stuff again. Maybe vodka would be a better alternative.

     It took a while, but handler and felon finally made it up the long ascent to Neal’s temporary quarters. That’s right—June’s loft was only meant to be a short-lived port in the storm. He was just going to stay until he could get that plan up and running. Peter unceremoniously plunked him down in a chair and placed a bottle of water before him.

     “Drink!” Peter could really be bossy at times.

     “Coffee,” Neal pleaded earnestly.

     “Nah, coffee will just dehydrate you even more,” Peter clarified.

     So, Neal drank the water and then part of another bottle before Peter finally let him zero in on his bed like a homing pigeon. He removed Neal’s loosened tie and then his shoes before covering him with an afghan. Neal felt the bed sag as his handler perched by his side.

     “Did Kate contact you, Neal?” Peter asked softly.

     Neal kept his eyes closed as he shook his head miserably. That probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do because it caused the water in his stomach to slosh and alert him to the possibility of more gastric rebellion.

     He heard Peter sigh again, and then Neal felt a clumsy hand brush the hair out of his eyes before coming to rest on the top of his head. He thought that he heard a sorrowfully whispered “Oh, Neal” as oblivion sought to claim him. As Neal drifted off, he wondered why Peter was being so … so … nice?

~~~~~~~~~~

     The sting should have gone off without a hitch, but some naïve criminals were really stupid and thought that they could outrun their fate. Neal was all over this nitwit, chasing the corrupt hedge-fund manager up fire escapes and across rooftops. He finally managed to incapacitate the fleeing man with a lunging tackle that, unfortunately, took both CI and perp too close to the roof’s edge. Suddenly, they were both plummeting to the ground below, landing in an uncoordinated heap of arms and legs.

     Neal was stunned for just a minute, but then he heard the loud, dramatic moaning and groaning of the apprehended idiot beside him. Good—not dead, thus avoiding a ton of tedious paperwork for himself and Peter. Oh look, here’s Peter now, his face creased in fear and panic. The agent is compulsively running his hands all over Neal’s extremities and torso to satisfy himself that his partner has not shattered into little pieces like Humpty Dumpty after his great fall.

     Neal decides that he needs to reassure his handler. After all, he wouldn’t want Peter to have a stroke or something. Then where would Neal be?

     “No worries, Peter, I’m fine,” Neal manages to mumble. “Just really embarrassed by the lack of finesse on the dismount,” he clarifies.

     Neal knows that his persuasive tongue is his best asset. He smiles charmingly and tries to raise up on his elbows. Bad idea! The world and everything in it, including Peter and the howling hedge-fund manager, spin out of control and fade to black.

      Fast forward to a softly lit room that definitely isn’t his, and the steady beeping that is becoming extremely annoying. He cracks open an eye and takes in the bulletin board, the small television mounted high up on a bracket, and the IV pole parked in a corner. Hospital, he immediately thinks, even though he can’t quite remember what happened to get him here. His other senses are coming into sharper focus as well—antiseptic smells assault his nostrils, and he perceives the incongruous sounds of soft snores beside him.  

     He cautiously turns his head slightly, which causes knives to slice behind his eyes. Damn—he has the mother of all headaches! So, Neal grits his teeth and tries to roll his whole body in that direction instead of just his neck and head. Maybe that will keep things steadier. His feeble but well-intentioned movements jostle a hand from his forearm, and Peter immediately surges awake. His alert eyes have questions in them.

     “Neal, how do you feel, Buddy? God, it’s good to see you finally wake up! You really had me worried.”

     Neal knows that Peter is sincere. By now, he has catalogued all of his handler facial expressions, and this one is unadulterated relief. For a brief second, Neal is bewildered. Why is Peter here, apparently keeping a vigil at his CI’s bedside? Surely, someone would notify him if Neal croaked—something along the lines of “Here’s your anklet back, fellas. That poor slob won’t be needing it anymore.”

     “Peter,” Neal whispers, “what are you doing here?”

     Peter smiled wryly. “Just waiting for my partner to wake up after a traumatic concussion so that I can tell him how incredibly foolhardy he was.”

     The words were said softly, giving lie to the exasperated chiding. Suddenly, Neal feels a bit uncomfortable, so he opts for the usual glib deflection.

     “Well, we have to keep your closure rates up in the stratosphere, Peter. You gotta do what you gotta do in the heat of the moment.”

     Peter’s hand has found its way onto Neal’s forearm once again. “Neal, your wellbeing is the most important thing in this partnership, and means more to me than any statistics. Now don’t you ever forget that!”

     Neal cuts his eyes away. It is just too much to process right now, as he finds himself wondering when Peter had become so … so … compassionate?

~~~~~~~~~~

     Finally, it was all coming to fruition, and the man with the plan was going to get the brass ring. Neal was going to grab his girl and literally fly away. Even though the December sky is leaden and gray, Neal’s spirits are light with anticipation. He has cut all the ties that bind him to New York—well, almost all of them. He just could not face Peter because Neal was savvy enough to know that his handler was the lynchpin in the drama that had played out this past year. Peter had the power to shake the certainty of Neal’s decision. When had Neal allowed him that ultimate control?

     But, Peter wasn’t here, so Neal didn’t have to worry about emotional dichotomies, and could embark on the rest of his life. The young man whimsically envisioned that to be akin to those “walkabouts” that the Australian aborigines took to find their true selves and the real purpose of their existences. Hell, Neal would be able to reinvent himself and become anyone that he wanted. It was an exhilarating concept to be able to start all over with the woman that he loved.

     But then, as a few snowflakes start to feather down, Peter is suddenly there, entreating and strangely uncertain, eroding the confidence of Neal’s grand plan. When had the FBI agent ever been anything but self-righteous, determined, and doggedly persistent? Now everything in Neal’s world is so out of balance on a cold tarmac by the Hudson.

     Neal feels the alluring pull of powerful magnets, one or the other at his back depending on which way that he turns. Kate waves, Peter pleads, and Neal’s resolve falters as he wonders when Peter had become so much more than his parole officer. He wonders when Peter had become his … his … friend!


End file.
